S White - Hermit

Dana could no longer tell for sure what was memory and what was reading reports, listening to neighbours, and her own dreaming. Decades of overthinking had melted ideas, memories, notions; second-hand views and second-rate psychiatry. But she sensed once again the sun on her skin, the muscles in her face as she smiled, the buzz of insects and a distant harvester.

‘It’s hellish hot. I know that now, but I didn’t really notice at the time, because I’m sitting in the shade and not working. There’s no air, no breeze. Suddenly, Dad drops to his knees and on to his side. He’s lying on those scarlet blossoms, clutching his shoulder. I think he’s hurt his arm, because that’s what he’s looking at. Except he isn’t: he’s looking for his pills. The heart pills. He croaks at me to get his pills. By his bed, in the brown bottle.

‘I run. I probably wasn’t quick but it felt like I ran like the wind. Up the stairs, into their room. I know which side of the bed is his and I grab the bottle. I’m on my way down the stairs, daring to take them two at a time, when it hits me.

Dad needs some water.

‘I stop at the bottom of the stairs. Maybe I can – but no, he always takes them with a glass of water. I’ve come to believe that the water is part of the pills; that they can’t work without it. He’ll be angry if I only take out the pills. He’s hurting; he needs his little girl to bring the water so the pills will work.

‘I go to the kitchen and drag a chair to the bench. Up on to the bench, on my knees. I swing open the cupboard and take a tumbler. Crawl across to the tap and fill the glass, pretty full. I climb down on to the chair and then to the floor. Put the tablets into the pocket on the front of my dress. I need both hands for the water. Can’t drop it.

‘When I come outside again the sunlight hurts my eyes. The heat smacks me. I start down the path, as fast as I can without dropping any. He needs the pills and the water. I know this.

‘As I get near him I can see Mother bent over him. She’s screaming his name, over and over. I’m right next to her before she notices. Her hair is over her face, her eyes are wet. She’s… angry. Angry and desperate.

‘“His pills!” she shouts. “His pills!” I’m shaking now. I hold out the water to her and she gets this strange look. She knocks the glass away into the bushes. “Where are the pills?” she screams.

‘I take them out of my pocket. She snatches them off me. She pours some of them straight into his throat. I don’t understand. That won’t work, I want to say. But something about her makes me shut up. Now she’s shaking him. Slapping him. Screaming again.

‘When she lets go of him he falls back, hard, on to the patio. His head bounces. I can still hear it – the big thud, and the little secondary one. She looks at me and, eight as I am, it feels… terrifying. I take a step back, wanting to run but scared she’ll catch me. She’s a monster now. I can’t stop shaking. She wants to know why I didn’t bring the pills quicker, why I didn’t run.

‘I whisper: Because he has to take them with water .

‘She looks down, and everything is very, very quiet. When she looks up, Mother’s eyes are narrow, like a cat’s.

‘“You killed him,” she says to me. “You scheming, evil little bitch.” She dropped her voice, I could barely hear it. “You… Jezebel . Child of the devil. Murderer.” ’

There was silence at the other end. Dana snapped herself back from twenty-five years ago and wondered if the phone was dead, if Lucy had run, if… she had no idea what.

‘Jesus Christ, Dana. I’m so sorry. That’s… I don’t even know what that is. You’ve carried that for so long.’

Lucy struck a nerve with the one word. Carried . It was exactly that; a burden Dana could never shake, a perpetual weight permeating everything she said, or did, or thought. Everything, poisoned by her mother’s words. All that came after was caused by that moment. Everything she did or didn’t do, tried or failed, was or could never be: rooted in those few seconds of summer.

Her hand was shaking, her vision beginning to swim.

‘Carried? Yes, yes, that’s… that’s part of the battle, Luce. That’s how my life changed. When you’re eight and your father dies, you think your life’s over. But everything was just beginning. My mother went from anger to cold brutality – like that switch was always there, within her. It all got… it got really dark, brutal.

‘I could never doubt that she blamed me. She wanted a reason for Dad’s death, and she wanted that reason to be me. She needed it to be me. And she needed me to have something wrong. Something hideous inside me, but somehow fixable if she pushed her own warped faith far enough. That way, she would have some control of consequence: as if she couldn’t be a victim herself, if she created one in me. The physical abuse, the mental torture, the emotional iciness: she kept trying to exorcise a demon in me that wasn’t there.

‘It took me years to escape it; to physically get out of there. Because the people I should have been able to run to; they turned away, or gave up, or – incredible to me – indulged her and helped her. That thing they say to kids in trouble – tell someone . Well, I did, and it just got worse. Because young kids don’t always know who they can trust, so they guess. I guessed wrong: oh, so wrong.

‘The Day just brings it all screaming back. I bluff through every Day: have done for years. I kid myself I’m managing it, but really I’m hanging by my fingertips. Working a murder on this Day? It’s too much, it’s a tidal wave. Turns out, I should have stood down.

‘The second anniversary I mentioned? That was twenty years later. Twenty, to the day. That was… Jesus, I can’t talk about it, Luce. Not now. It was worse. Much worse than the first anniversary. Much worse. Terrible. Sorry.’

Dana was about to choke; to howl like Nathan.

‘I… I have to go, Luce. Thanks. For calling. Listening. Thanks.’ She wanted to throw the phone down, but couldn’t.

‘Thank you for telling me. I, uh, I feel very close to you tonight, Dana. Sleep tight.’

It was so intimate, so quietly powerful, it cut through Dana totally.

‘G’night, Luce.’

‘Night.’

The phone found its cradle at the third attempt. She hadn’t talked about it all for maybe four years – Father Timms had been the last to hear it. She understood saying it out loud gave it a new resonance, an echo bouncing back and shimmering through her.

She’d told Nathan, effectively, that he should confess because it was good for his conscience, and because it gave him some semblance of control over his future. It had worked; Nathan had seen the sense in it.

Dana didn’t. It was a monstrous lie.

She glanced at the clock. Six hours and twelve minutes of the Day to go.

Dana didn’t think she was going to make it.

Writing a novel seems like a solo task, right until the point where it isn’t. At that stage, you become hugely grateful for the passion, experience and support of many others.

I’d like to thank everyone at Nottingham Trent University, especially the School of Amy, for their help. I’m eternally grateful to my agent, Hattie Grunewald of The Blair Partnership, who pulled me from the slush pile. And everyone at Headline, especially Toby Jones, who has achieved that great balance of fine-tuning a novel without losing its essence.

Finally, I’m grateful for the support and love of my family.

S. R. White worked for a UK police force for twelve years, before returning to academic life and taking an MA in Creative Writing at Nottingham Trent University. He now lives in Queensland, Australia.